


Winter Is Coming

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having completed a visit to the Umbers of Last Hearth, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell ride toward home with their party. After more than a decade in the North, summer snows can no longer distress Catelyn Stark, but she can never quite shake the chill in her spine when she hears the Stark Words. Winter is Coming.</p><p>Written for the "huddling for warmth" prompt for the Ships of Ice and Fire challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Is Coming

Her horse stumbled badly in a snow drift, but she kept her seat without difficulty, silently thanking the gods for all the practice she’d gotten riding on their way to Last Hearth. She was not surprised to see Ned’s horse come instantly beside hers, however.

“Are you all right, my love?” he asked with some concern.

“I am fine, Ned,” she told him with a smile. “But remind me never to complain about the summer snows at Winterfell again.”

Seemingly assured that she was unharmed, he smiled at her. “Well, this summer has lasted a good many years, my lady. It cannot last many more, and winter will undoubtedly arrive in the North before it touches any other part of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Winterfell seems a southron castle compared to these lands, my lord!” she exclaimed.

Ned laughed out loud then. “Well, my love, Lord Umber does have the northernmost castle of all my bannermen.”

“What of your mountain clans, Ned? They range even further north, don’t they? When shall you take me to visit them?” she teased him.

He made a face at her and then turned his mount away to answer the call of one of his men as she laughed after him. In truth, she had no desire to journey to the mountain clans. He’d told her enough tales of them to satisfy her curiosity, and she’d met most of the clan leaders when they’d journeyed to Winterfell. As Lady of Winterfell, she did feel somewhat compelled to visit all the seats of the actual Northern lords, however, although when she’d been birthing babes every couple of years, visits to the faraway seats had been out of the question. She’d been to Deepwood Motte and even Bear Island in the years between Bran and Rickon, and now that Rickon was weaned, she’d agreed to accompany Ned to Last Hearth on this visit.

They’d left Last Hearth yesterday, and this ridiculous snowfall had started as they’d camped last night. _Summer snows!_ Catelyn thought, laughing to herself at the term. There were at least six inches of fresh snow on the ground now, and the drifts were well over a foot deep in numerous places. It was also bitter cold. The temperature had dropped rapidly the previous night, and Catelyn’s cheeks reddened from something other than cold as she recalled how she and Ned had kept warm in their tent. While they had both endeavored to be as silent as possible, the tents were close together, and she’d suffered the knowing looks from some of their men this morning with all the dignity she could muster. She reminded herself that the poor men had no such excellent means of generating heat through the cold night and found that her pity for them outweighed her embarrassment.

Now, she wished only to reach Winterfell with all haste. She missed her children and wanted to be with them once more. Rickon, at barely two and a half, could not possibly understand why she was gone so long, and her arms ached to hold her fierce little pup. Her arms ached for all of them. Robb, not quite four and ten, had been so proud when his father had left him formally in charge of the castle. “You are the Stark in Winterfell,” Ned had told him in his deep voice, and Robb’s chest had puffed out so much she had been forced to turn away to hide her smile. Of course, Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, and Vayon Poole were there to keep things running smoothly, but this was the first time Ned had actually left Winterfell at least nominally under the care of their firstborn, and she knew well how much it meant to Robb.

It would be good to be home. She knew Ned felt the same. Lord Umber had spoken to him at length about the increased numbers of wildlings crossing the Wall, and she knew it concerned him more than he would say openly. He had come to rely on her counsel over the years and generally spoke rather openly with her, but he still tried to protect her at times. He did not like to cause her distress. She thought that perhaps he might speak more with her about these wildlings and what their presence south of the Wall might mean once they were safely within the walls of Winterfell.

She knew him well enough to realize he was deeply troubled, though. Already this journey had a different feel than their journey north had. He’d commanded that she keep her mount in the center of the group, rather than riding beside him at the head of the small column as she’d frequently done on their way to Last Hearth, and he had men flanking her at all times. He generally rode at the front of the column still, but frequently came back to check on her and then on back to tail of the group to speak with the men who made up the rear guard. Last night, he’d lengthened the watches to have more men awake at all times, and he’d forbidden her from leaving their tent to accompany him when he took his own turn at watch although she’d watched with him nearly every night on their way here. He’d taken the first watch, before the bitterest cold set in, but still she had spent those hours shivering beneath the furs from both cold and fear of what he would not tell her.

When he’d finally come to the tent, his skin cold to the touch but of course not shivering himself, they had huddled close together, and he’d silenced her inquiries with his lips on hers causing her to forget both her questions and the cold. She felt warm again at the memory, and she knew her cheeks colored even more. She looked forward to where her husband rode by Jory Cassel, sitting tall and straight, looking every inch the Lord of Winterfell, and she smiled. She alone knew how deeply Ned’s private misgivings ran about that title ever coming to him, and she also knew better than anyone how unfounded those misgivings were. Would that she could take them from him. She could at least offer him herself, knowing that he took as much comfort in their physical connection as she did.

She did not know what it was between them---this thing that so easily caused the simplest touches to ignite such passion. She only knew that it had been there almost since the beginning, long before they had truly come to love (although the gods knew she loved him more than life now). It hadn’t lessened at all through trials, and years, and children, and was undampened by such trivial things as discomfort, cold, or even fear. She prayed fervently it would be so between them always, even as she suspected her old septa would be scandalized by such prayers. She almost giggled out loud like a young girl at that thought.

Watching her husband’s back and imagining herself already home at Winterfell helped drive the chill away as she rode. She pictured herself holding Rickon in her arms, trying to maintain her balance as Bran and Arya flung themselves at her at once for hugs and kisses, refraining from pulling Robb and Sansa immediately into her arms as well because her oldest son and daughter would wish to stand before their parents and greet them formally before being embraced. Mayhaps they would take their evening meal in her chambers on the day of their arrival so that they could have the children to themselves. Ned would likely agree to it as long as he had ample time and opportunity to speak first with Ser Rodrik and the other men about any pressing matters at Winterfell. Then, when they’d seen the children to their rooms, she and Ned would return to her chambers where he’d complain about the heat and she’d pour him a glass of wine and encourage him to tell her his concerns. She would listen and give what counsel she could and then smooth the worry lines from his sweet face with her hands. He would smile and lead her to her bed where they could love without any inhibition for the first time in too long.

Lost in such pleasant imaginings, she didn’t hear the whistling sounds of the first arrows, or didn’t consciously recognize them if she did. Her first inkling that they were under attack came when the man on her right slammed into her, knocking her from her horse and covering her with his body in the snow.

“What are you . . .” she started to gasp when her breath returned to her after the impact.

“Hush, my lady!” he whispered harshly. “Be still and be dead until it’s safe to move.

 _Safe?_ She could only see a small space in one direction from beneath the man’s heavy bulk, but she saw horses’ hooves stomping much too close by them and thought they would surely be trampled. Craning her neck to look a bit more to the side, she was startled to see the man who’d been riding on her other side face down in the snow, three arrows protruding from his back.

“Ned!” she cried out reflexively.

“Hush, Lady Stark! Please!” the man begged her.

Trembling violently, Catelyn willed herself to be still and silent and to ignore the horses rearing all around them. She heard the sound of metal meeting metal and now clearly heard the sounds of arrows amid the shouts of men. She listened intently, hoping to hear one voice in particular. _Where are you, Ned?_

Then she did hear him. “To me!” he shouted, and then she heard him shout any number of things she couldn’t quite understand. She couldn’t tell how near he was to her. Twice, she heard him shout her name. The first time, the man atop her must have heard it too because he actually put a hand on her mouth to prevent her from replying. He quickly relaxed it, however, and the second time Ned called for her, she remained silent on her own.

After a brief time, the horses seemed to have moved away from her, although the shouts and other sounds of fighting went on in seemingly different places around her. Her protector remained perfectly still, and his weight upon her became increasingly uncomfortable. Still, she dared not move, herself.

Then she heard a hoarse cry from very nearby. “No! Cat! Oh gods, no!” Ned’s voice was anguished. He must be able to see her lying there beneath the soldier.

With difficulty, she stretched out her hand and lifted it in the direction of his voice. She couldn’t see him. “Ned!” she called. She couldn’t remain silent, not with her husband so near and obviously thinking her dead.

The cry that escaped him then was a wordless sound of joy and relief , and almost instantly she felt him grab at her hand. It felt as if her protector were being lifted off her as she was pulled forward, and she turned to say something to him only to see that Jory Cassel was dropping the man’s body into the snow, multiple arrows piercing it.

“No,” she whispered.

Ned had pulled her up and into his arms, all the while maneuvering the two of them toward a thick stand of trees. “He’s dead, Cat,” he told her as he felt her pull back toward the man who’d saved her life. The big northman had obviously lain there shielding her, taking those arrows in her stead, and she hadn’t even realized it.

Numbly, she let her husband pull her into the shelter of the trees. He pressed her up against a large trunk and put his hands on either side of her face, his grey eyes looking at her wildly. “Are you injured? Were you hit at all, Cat?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Are you all right, Ned?” she started to ask.

But as soon as he’d confirmed she was uninjured, Ned had turned away from her to look at their Captain of the Guard who’d followed them into the trees. “Take her and ride, Jory. Ride hard for Last Hearth. Get her out of here.”

For the first time, Catelyn saw the horse that stood close by. Ned’s horse. Far too well trained to bolt from battle, even after he had dismounted. “No!” she cried. “I am not leaving you here!”

“You are,” he said shortly. “Mount up,” he said to Jory.

“That’s your horse, Ned!” Catelyn protested.

“Aye, and he’s the fastest mount we’ve got.” To Jory, he said, “We know we’ve taken out three archers, and I haven’t seen any more arrows since the last one went down, but that doesn’t mean there are no more. Keep her in front of you. Stick to the thick cover until you’ve covered a good bit of ground. We’ll finish the fight here, and keep them too busy to come after you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jory said without hesitation, climbing into Ned’s saddle.

“Ned!” Catelyn said again, this time putting her hand on his face to force him to look at her. “You must come with us.”

He looked grim. “I cannot. These are wildlings, Catelyn. More than I’ve ever seen in a single band before. I cannot leave them to prey upon travelers, and I certainly cannot leave my men to their mercy.” He took her hand from his cheek and held it between his. “They have numbers, my lady, but they are ill trained with poor weapons save for their archers. Already we have cut down a great number of them, and those that remain have sought refuge in the woods on the other side of the road. If we do not root them out, they will likely harass us all the way back to Winterfell, however, and if they do have other archers . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot leave them be, Cat.”

She knew that voice as sure as she knew the expression on his face. He would not be moved. Before she could think on it, she pressed her lips hard against his and then grabbed him tightly, tiptoeing to whisper into his ear. “Stay safe!” she demanded hoarsely. Then she turned away from him and faced the horse so that he could hand her up to Jory.

Ned never took his eyes from hers even as he commanded Jory in a rough voice, “Ride!” and slapped the flank of the horse. It nearly tore her heart from her body to see how tightly he held on to her with his eyes even as he sent her from him, and she turned to look forward only when Jory’s larger body behind her blocked him from her sight.

They rode hard for the better part of an hour, and Catelyn saw no sign of pursuit. No sounds of battle followed them. There were only the horse’s footfalls on the snowy ground and its labored breathing to break the silence of these northern trees. Finally, Jory had to slow the beast lest it collapse, and as they moved along at a slow walking gait, Catelyn made a decision.

“We need to stop, Jory.”

“My lady, Lord Stark said I was to return with you to Last Hearth in all haste.”

“We are hardly traveling in all haste now,” she snapped at him, “There is no one near us, and the poor horse could use an actual rest. He has been carrying double for entirely too long at such a pace. It would hardly serve anyone if he were to come up lame.”

Jory hesitated, and she knew she had hit upon a legitimate concern. “Besides,” she said, pushing her advantage, “I fear I must relieve myself.”

Jory sighed then and pulled the horse up to a halt. “Allow me to assist you, my lady,” he said in resignation. He swung one leg backward over the horse’s body and leapt lightly to the ground, then reached up to help her dismount. “We cannot linger long, though, my lady.”

“I shall only be a minute.” She walked behind two thickly branched pines, lifted her skirts carefully and forced herself to make her words truthful by making water. Afterward, she walked back to where Jory could see her easily, but she did not approach him. “We shall wait for the others here, Jory,” she said.

“Lady Stark,” Jory said warily, familiar enough with her that he recognized the tone of her voice. “Lord Stark said that we were to . . .”

“I know what Lord Stark said, Jory. Lord Stark is not here, and I am now saying that we shall wait for the others right where we are.”

“We cannot do that, my lady! Lord Stark will be furious! I gave him my word I would keep you safe.”

“He will likely be angry at first,” Catelyn agreed. “But at me, Jory, not at you. Lord Eddard has been wed to me long enough to know I have given you no choice. And unless you are prepared to throw me over that horse like so much baggage, you do not have a choice, for I assure you I will not mount up again willingly until my lord husband and the rest of the men have come.”

Jory did not doubt her words at all, and Catelyn had to bite back a smile at his distraught expression in spite of her gut wrenching worry over Ned. “You are keeping me safe, you know,” she told him more gently. “There has been no pursuit. You know it as well as I. We are far from any fighting. And don’t tell me you aren’t secretly pleased at the prospect of knowing the outcome of this battle within a matter of hours, because I know you better than that, Jory Cassel.”

He sighed, but actually grinned briefly at her then. “I won’t risk a fire, Lady Stark, for if there are other wildlings about, we don’t want their attention. And Lord Stark carries little in the way of supplies on this mount, but I do believe his extra cloak is there. It’s big enough to fit right over yours, and you’ll soon be cold just sitting here.”

Catelyn nodded absently, her mind already back at the site of the attack with Ned and his men. Jory did what he could to make her a comfortable place to sit, and she pulled Ned’s big grey cloak over her. It smelled of him, and she took comfort in that.

Occasionally, the two of them spoke, but mostly they sat silently, and Catelyn could not say with certainty how many hours passed. While this long summer would likely wane over the next year or so, the days were still tremendously long this far North, the land being granted many more hours of daylight than regions south, as if in compensation for summers plagued by cold spells and snowfalls. While the sky remained light, Catelyn knew it was becoming very late in the evening and she grew more worried as time passed.

Just as she was about to suggest to Jory that they ride back toward the others and risk him turning Ned’s horse toward Last Hearth instead, she heard hoofbeats coming rapidly toward them.

Jory drew his sword. “Behind the trees, my lady,” he said sharply.

She didn’t argue. Yet, before she had been there even a moment, she heard Jory call out to the approaching riders in joyful welcome.

 _Ned_! she thought, running from her hiding place to stand beside Jory and surprise her husband. It wasn’t Ned, though. Only two riders approached, both of them Stark men, and both clearly shocked to see Jory and herself.

“My lady!” one of the men said. “You were to be at Last Hearth!”

“Well, I am here instead. Tell me of the wildlings. Are they defeated? Where is my lord husband?”

The man looked suddenly very uncomfortable and refused to meet her eyes. Catelyn felt ice begin to form in her veins.

“The wildlings are defeated, my lady,” the other man said quietly. “Every last one of the villains is dead.” Catelyn turned to look at him. He, too, had trouble meeting her eyes, but he managed to glance at her intermittently and what she saw in his eyes caused the ice in her veins to reach her heart. The man looked at her with sorrow and pity.

“And my husband,” she said breathlessly. “Where is Lord Eddard? Does he ride with the rest of the men toward Winterfell? Did he send you to fetch me back?”

“He . . .we . .we’re to go to Last Hearth and fetch the maester, my lady,” the first man stuttered, still looking at the ground.

“Lord Eddard took a wound, Lady Stark,” the quieter man said, again trying and mostly failing to look her in the eyes. “A bad one.”

Catelyn felt wounded herself at those words, and she had to force the next question through her lips. “Does he live?” It was no more than a whisper.

“He lives,” the man said. “But I do not know for how long.”

A wordless sort of sound escaped her then, and she felt her knees buckle. She would have fallen had it not been for Jory’s arms coming around her from behind. “If the lord is so gravely wounded, can you possibly ride to Last Hearth and bring Lord Umber’s maester in time? Who tends him now?” Jory demanded.

“Harwin,” the first man muttered. “He’s good with bandages and splints. He’s helped his father see to a good many men in the stable yard when they’ve been thrown from their mounts.”

“Being thrown from a horse is not a sword or arrow wound!” Jory shouted. “Which did Lord Eddard suffer?”

“Both,” said the quiet man, and Catelyn whimpered. “Those wildlings seemed to know who he was. They set after him with a great number of their men. And the maester’s not for him. He wants us to fetch him for the three other seriously wounded men. They’ve got a chance, but he didn’t think they should be moved, so he sent us to bring aid.”

“He’s still giving orders, then,” Jory said. “He’s still in charge.” Catelyn could hear the hope in his voice at that, and she felt the echo of it in her own heart.

“He is . . .was when we left anyway.”

Catelyn had stood here long enough talking with these men. She twisted out of Jory’s grip and walked to Ned’s horse. “Come, Jory. We must ride to my lord husband.”

“My lady!” the first man said in alarm, looking up at her for the first time since he’d initially spoken. “You don’t want to do that! You shouldn’t see . . .”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I want or what I should see!” Catelyn interrupted him coldly. “Jory, are you coming with me, or am I riding alone?” She grabbed the horse’s reins.

“I ride with you, Lady Stark,” Ned’s loyal friend said. Turning to the other men, he said, “Go. Make your way to Last Hearth with as much haste as you can. Bring aid for our men.” Then he was at her side, boosting her up onto Ned’s horse before climbing up behind her himself.

Catelyn had no conscious memory of the ride back to where they had left Ned and the men. Her mind was filled with fear and worry, and her body aware only of the horse’s movement beneath her and the warmth of her husband’s cloak. She saw nothing around her and was honestly surprised to realize the sky had started to darken a bit when Jory slowed the horse and she heard a man call out. “Get Harwin! That’s Lady Stark!”

“Help me down, Jory,” she said as men started rising from where they sat huddled around three small fires and coming to meet them. She scanned the faces of the men who stood, and the men who lay on furs spread near the fires, but she did not see her husband.

Then, from a short distance away, she saw Harwin, the stocky son of Winterfell’s Master of Horse. He reached her just as her feet touched the ground and Jory let go of her.

“My lady,” Harwin said, dropping to his knee before her.

“Where is he, Harwin?”

“My lady, you shouldn’t . . .”

“Where is he, Harwin? Does my husband yet live?”

The Northman nodded. “Aye, Lady Stark. He does.”

Catelyn found she could breathe again at those words. “Where is he, then? I will go to him.” Her heart beat upon her ribs as if it were trying to escape her chest.

“My lady . . .I fear that . . .”

“I care naught for your fears, Harwin. I would go to my lord husband. Now.”

Harwin knew better than to disobey her when she spoke in such a manner. None of the other men even dared approach her, all keeping a cautious, respectful distance. Still, Harwin hesitated.

“Tell her where he is, man,” Jory said. “She’s his wife.” Jory’s voice had a strangled sort of sound to it, and Catelyn wondered if she sounded the same. Harwin sighed and tilted his head in the direction from which he’d come. Far back within the trees, Catelyn spotted the light of another fire.

“We couldn’t move him at all,” Harwin sighed. “His leg . . .”

Catelyn didn’t care to hear about his leg. She immediately began walking in the direction of the fire. As she drew near, she saw two men crouched down and she realized a third man lay between them on fur blankets spread upon the ground by the fire. _He’s too near the fire,_ she thought. _Ned can’t stand to be too hot._

She began to run, heedless of roots or low hanging branches, forcing her boots to move quickly through the snow. “Ned!” she cried out before she could even see his face.

When she finally reached a place where she could see between the two men who rose and bowed their heads in deference to her, she looked upon her husband. He was laid upon the furs, but he had several wadded cloths behind his head and upper back to form a pillow of sorts, raising him up so that he only semi-reclined. His eyes were open and they met hers. “Cat,” he rasped, in a voice that sounded a pale imitation of his normal strong tones. “Why are you here?”

She fell to her knees beside him, causing one of the men to move out of her way, not caring that the snow would seep through her cloaks and skirts. “Because you are here, Eddard Stark. Where else do think I would be?”

He was more than pale. His face was colorless, and he looked half a corpse already. She’d been so glad to see his eyes open, so glad to hear him speak her name, that she hadn’t truly looked at him fully in those first seconds. She saw that his right leg lay at an unnatural angle and someone had bound a cloth tightly around it, forming a tourniquet as high as one could go, higher than any amputation she had ever seen. Still, dark blood seeped above the tourniquet. Below it, both his pantleg and his flesh were ripped wide from a large, irregular wound that must have been made by a blade of some sort. The skin around the wound looked bloodless as the tourniquet did its work--slowing the blood loss, but killing the limb.

He saw where her eyes went. “Cover me,” he rasped to the man beside him. “I would not have you look on such a terrible sight, my lady,” he said to her.

The man picked up a blanket which lay crumpled beside him and threw it over the leg. Catelyn realized they had probably tried to cover him before, but Ned likely had complained of being hot. “Are you too near the fire, my love?” she asked him, choosing not to speak about his leg.

He actually laughed then, but it ended with a cough which to her horror produced pink, frothy spittle. She looked more closely at his chest and saw that his shirt was soaked through with dark blood on the left side, although it didn’t appear to be actively oozing blood now as his groin was. Likely there was a bandage beneath that shirt covering an arrow wound. _Both,_ the man had said, and Catelyn shivered as the man moved to wipe Ned’s mouth with a rag.

“I’ll do that,” she said hurriedly, grabbing the rag from him. Ned never took his eyes from hers as he spat into the rag in her hand, the spittle produced then even darker red than the froth she had originally seen. _The arrow has pierced his lung,_ she thought.

“I am sorry, my love,” he said softly, looking at her sadly. She knew he could read the despair on her face.

“No,” she said, taking his face in her hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. Nothing.” His skin felt much too cold to her. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted the two men who hovered over them, and Jory and Harwin who stood nearby, to be gone.

“I told you to take her to Last Hearth,” Ned rasped then, looking over her to see Jory there with Harwin.

Jory stepped forward. “If you have the secret of getting Lady Stark to do what she does not wish to do, I would be most pleased if you shared it with me, my lord,” Jory said, keeping his voice light although Catelyn heard the strain in it. Both Jory and Harwin had known her husband most of his life, and pain was etched on their faces.

Ned turned his eyes back to hers and raised one of his own hands to cover hers where it still lay against his cheek. “I am sorry, Jory. But I fear there is no way to make a Tully do anything she does not wish.” His words were soft, but she heard the teasing affection in them. He held her gaze for a moment, and then sighed to look back up toward Jory. “Did you see the men I sent to Last Hearth then?” His voice was weak, but the timbre was reminiscent of that which she called his lord’s voice, and her heart dared to hope as she realized her husband was still very much commanding his men.

“We did, my lord,” Jory answered. “I sent them on to Last Hearth in all haste.”

“Good,” Ned said, nodding. “We’ve got three men I believe can be saved still but they need more attention than we can provide ourselves. We lost seven, Jory. Not including . . .” His eyes drifted toward her, and he left that sentence hanging. “Another five or so with fairly minor wounds. There were near two score of the bastards in that raiding party. I’ve never seen so many wildlings. I can’t imagine what they were doing in such large numbers this far south of the Wall. It will bear investigation.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As to where you go from here . . .”

“Ned,” Catelyn interrupted. “You must save your strength. Rest, my love, and speak of these things with Jory later.”

He looked at her and then up at Harwin. “Take my lady wife and get her something warm to drink. She looks exhausted.”

“Ned! I won’t leave you!”

“No, Cat,” he said very softly. “You shall not be leaving me.” He pulled her hand to his lips and she noticed that his own hand shook with the effort. “I must speak with Jory now, my lady. For now is the time I have. Come right back to me. I will be here.”

She nodded mutely then, for fear she could not speak without losing her composure, and Ned did not need that from her. Harwin came to her and took her hand to lead her away. As they walked toward some men gathered around a kettle on a fire, she said evenly, “He will lose the leg. There is no way to save it.” She tasted bile as the words came from her lips.

Harwin stopped walking and actually took her arm to turn her toward him. He had never been so forward before, and Catelyn looked at him, biting her lip and waiting to hear what he would say.

The man took a deep breath. “Lady Catelyn,” he said finally. “The leg is of no matter. Lord Stark will not survive these wounds.”

“Don’t say that!” she snapped, knowing he spoke the truth, but refusing to accept it. Knowing that Ned might well prefer death to losing his leg, but vowing to help him recover from this.

“It is true, my lady.” Unlike the men who’d found her and Jory in the woods, Harwin met her eyes without ever looking away. Unlike those men, he wasn’t simply a loyal Stark soldier. Like her, he loved Ned. Only eight years younger than Ned, he’d grown up in Winterfell and come to know and admire the quiet youth who would come home to visit from the Eyrie long before anyone dreamed he would one day be their lord. “The wound at the top of the leg is too high for any amputation to serve,” he said plainly, knowing her well enough after more than a decade not to soften the truth. “It extends even into his lower belly, above the tourniquet. I’ve packed and wrapped it, but there is no fix. That is why the blood still comes.”

Catelyn’s mouth felt very dry, and all her limbs felt heavy. “He took an arrow as well, I saw.” Her voice sounded dull, dead. “His lung?”

Harwin nodded. “I believe so, my lady. I am sorry.”

She chewed her lip until she thought it would bleed. “But the tourniquet,” she protested, grasping at whatever hope she could. “You must think there is some hope! Else why staunch the bleeding?”

“Because he asked me to, my lady.” Harwin’s voice trembled now and nearly broke. “He bled profusely. Surely, he would have died within the hour, but he bid me tie off the leg. He . . .he needed to settle the men. To know you were safe. To . . .give his final orders.” Harwin did look away from her then and blinked furiously several times. “It would have been a quick death, without much time for pain. But . . .he would not have it! Not Ned.”

 _Not Ned._ Harwin would have undoubtedly called her husband by his given name those long ago days in Winterfell, long before she had ever been betrothed to Ned’s elder brother. But Harwin was ever respectful of his lord, and Catelyn had never heard him use it before. “Is there milk of the poppy for him, Harwin?” she whispered, barely able to form the words. Barely able to acknowledge that freedom from pain is all she could wish for her husband . . .her lord . . .her love.

Harwin shook his head. “We have it, but he won’t take the poppy, my lady. Wants to keep his head clear as long as possible.”

“I’ll see about that,” she said, turning back in the direction they had come.

“He would have you refreshed first, Lady Stark,” Harwin protested.

She whirled around to face him. “I don’t want any damned refreshment, Harwin! I want my husband out of pain! I want him . . .” The words choked her, and she closed her mouth lest a sob escape, biting back the tears she refused to shed. What good did her tears do Ned? Harwin stood patiently, bless the man, waiting for her regain her composure. “I would not have him suffer, Harwin,” she finally whispered.

“No, my lady. Nor would I. So let me go and get you a mug, and then we’ll return to him. He’ll like to see you’ve done as he asked. That you’ll take care of yourself, and that we’ll take care of you as well.”

She nodded, afraid to speak again lest any words be overtaken by the sob she had swallowed down once already. Harwin left her there then, and she watched him walk on to the men around the fire and order them to give him a cup for Lady Stark. She saw one of them dip a long handled ladle into the kettle, pour it into a mug, and hand the mug to Harwin. She saw the men staring furtively at her and then looking away uncomfortably as Harwin walked back to her with the steaming mug. She wondered what the men saw in her face.

She reached out to take the proffered drink, but saw that her hand trembled badly. “I fear you must carry it for me, Harwin,” she said.

“Yes, my lady.”

They walked back to Ned in silence. Jory now sat on upon the fur on the ground, close by Ned who lay back on the pillowed cloths with his eyes closed. Yet, Catelyn could see he was speaking, and Jory leaned in to catch every word. Silently, Catelyn sat down on his other side, not caring that she sat half in the snow.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, pausing for only a moment in whatever he was saying. He saw her empty hands and looked up to Harwin who raised the mug. “I have it here, my lord. She’s drinking it.”

That was a lie, of course. She hadn’t so much as touched the mug to her lips, but she was grateful for the man’s lie. Ned moved his hand toward her and she reached out to hold it. _Cold. Much too cold._ Then he closed his eyes and went back to speaking with Jory. Something about numbers of men and training schedules and then numbers of archers sufficient for various turrets in Winterfell. Slowly, it occurred to Catelyn that Ned was instructing his Captain of the Guard for the future. He was making certain he knew how to defend Winterfell should the need ever arise. His voice was hoarse, and while she would not have thought it possible, he had less color in his skin than he’d had before.

When he paused, she looked up from him to Jory. “I believe that will do for now, Jory,” she said firmly. Ned’s eyes opened again to look at her.

“Cat. I need to . . .”

“Speak with your wife,” she finished for him. “You have given more than enough instruction to Jory, and no doubt to Harwin and others as well before I arrived.” She swallowed then and tried to keep her voice even as she said, “Do you have nothing you wish to speak of with me?”

“Cat . . .” Her name was plea, and she knew he could never say all that he wanted to her any more than she could hope to say all that she wanted to him. Still, she would try.

“Leave us,” she said, to the men in general.

“My lady,” Harwin said hesitantly. “We are some distance from the main body, and the . . .blood . . .may draw beasts. I cannot leave you unprotected.”

“You can leave us and you will,” she said more firmly. “We’re in easy reach of an arrow from where the men are. Have bowmen at the ready if you must. I promise to scream loudly if we are attacked.” She looked from Harwin to Jory. Both men hesitated.

“Leave,” came low rasp from the man on the ground. “I would speak with my wife alone.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jory said, already turning to go. Catelyn watched the backs of the retreating men until they were some distance away before turning back to embrace her husband--gently, lest she hurt him. One of his arms came up around her, and she felt the weight of his broad hand on her back. “Oh gods, Ned!” she breathed. “Do you hurt badly, my love?”

She couldn’t stop the tears now, so she didn’t try. His hand moved gently up and down her back, comforting her. “No, Cat, it’s not so bad now” he whispered. “It was. I’d have murdered Harwin if I’d had the strength when he tied the leg and packed the belly wound just to stop the pain it caused.” He licked his lips, and Catelyn noted that both his lips and his tongue were not only pale, but too dry. “It has eased considerably, my love. Do not be troubled on that account.”

_He is comforting me. Gods, am I truly so selfish?_

She raised herself up off him so that she could look at his face, wiping her own face with her sleeve. He kept his eyes on hers, not closing them as he had done when he spoke with Jory. “What can I do for you, my love. Tell me. Name it, and I shall do it,” she told him determinedly.

“I fear I haven’t the strength to do what I would name,” he said, the wolfish grin on his face so familiar and so sweet that for an instance she could forget his pallor. In spite of her fear and choking grief, she actually laughed at him. He sighed. “You are so beautiful, my lady. There is none more so. I have not deserved you, but I hope you have not been entirely unhappy.”

“Hush, Ned!” she admonished him. “No woman has ever been happier in her marriage. I am blessed by the gods, my love. So blessed . . .” The tears came again, choking off her words. _Oh, gods. Don’t take him from me. Don’t be so cruel._

“Shh. You will be all right, Cat,” he told her. “You are strong. I know you will raise our children well.”

“We will raise them well,” she said fiercely, suddenly unable to accept this any longer. “You will recover, my love. Lord Umber’s maester will be here and . . .”

“I will be dead.” He spoke the words flatly, his grey eyes never wavering from hers.

“No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “No,” she repeated more loudly, shaking her head so violently that her hood slipped back off her head. Much of her hair had come loose from its braid through the all that had taken place that day, and it flew about her face as her head moved.

“I will be dead,” he repeated. “Before Jon Umber’s maester ever reaches this place.”

She stopped shaking her head and simply stared at him, feeling empty and hopeless and terrified and furious all at once. He reached up and touched the ends of her hair which now lay forward over her shoulders.

“So lovely,” he murmured before letting his hand fall back down. “Let us not lie to each other, Cat. You have never lied to me, my lady, and I would not have you start now. I will die this night, Catelyn, and we both know it.”

She stayed silent, but leaned forward to caress his face with her hands, running her long fingers over his bearded cheeks. She couldn’t stand not to be touching him. “Robb will need you,” he rasped. “He’s but three and ten and the Lord of Winterfell.” He shook his head. “Gods damn the wildlings!” he said with more force than she’d heard him muster yet, and his grey eyes went stormy. “I needed more time. More time. He’s just a boy. So much to tell him . . .to . . .” He shook his head wearily and closed his eyes. “I thought I’d have more time.”

“You’ve taught him well, my lord. Our son will make you proud.”

He nodded without opening his eyes. “Aye. He will.” He took a deep, ragged breath and opened his eyes to look at her. “It will fall to you to rule Winterfell until he comes of age, Cat. Some will likely grumble, but I’ve already made it clear to every man here that you are to be Lady Regent of the North. You’ll have good support from the Umbers, Reeds, Mormonts, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Glovers, Manderlys . . .” He began to lose his breath as he ran down the list of bannermen he knew she could count on.”

“Hush, Ned. I know where our strong support lies. You have taught me as well as Robb, my lord. I will not fail you.”

He almost smiled. “You could never fail me.” He coughed, and more blood appeared at his lips and dribbled down his chin. She didn’t bother with the cloth, simply wiping his face with the edge of her cloak.

After a pause, he said, “Let him be with you in all your councils. Let him watch you and learn. Teach him.”

She knew he spoke of Robb again. “I will, Ned. He will be a great lord. Like his father.” _He needs you, Ned. Not me._

“The girls will be fine,” he said.

_No they won’t. They will be heartbroken._

“They have you to model themselves after, and they could have no better example. I would not have them betrothed too young. Let them grow, Cat. Let them be children awhile yet. And then, I know you will make good marriages for them both. They will be great ladies like their mother.”

He closed his eyes again. He seemed to require rest after any utterance longer than a couple sentences. He was getting weaker. Catelyn forced herself to breathe. She wasn’t at all certain she could do this. “I don’t know that Arya shall ever model herself after me,” she said with a wry smile at the thought of her younger daughter’s perpetually tangled hair, torn dresses, and bruised knees and elbows.”

Ned didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled. “She’s more like you than you think,” he said. “She’ll be all right, Cat. Don’t try to mold her too much, my love. She’ll resist. She’s too much of my sister Lyanna in her not to. But she’s you, as well, for all she looks entirely like her aunt. She won’t forget her family or her duty, Cat. Just let her grow. Guide her gently, my love.”

“I will do my best.” Catelyn prayed that she could. It was simply easier with Sansa. She loved her younger daughter fiercely, and she knew that Arya loved her as well, but at times they seemed unable to understand each other at all. Ned had always helped them find their middle ground, even when she’d gotten angry at him over it.

“The little boys must be fostered.”

She drew in her breath sharply. She would not lose her babes. She could not survive losing Ned and her boys all at once. She could not.

He opened his eyes once more to look at her. “Not yet, my love. I would not take them from you yet. Bran is still far too little and Rickon just a babe. I went to the Eyrie very young, but I’d have our sons know Winterfell first. And I’d have you hold our sons close for more years yet.”

_Gods, he knows me so well._

“When it is time, foster them in the North. Our ties with the Tullys and the Arryns to the south are strong through your family as well as Lord Jon, and the king will never support any man in the North but a son of mine even if that son is still a boy.” He took another deep breath. “If we honor Northern houses with our sons, the Northern lords will love Robb more for it.” He tried to smile at her again. “And it will keep them closer to you, my lady.”

“So it will,” she said, giving him back the smile. “So shall I pick out good strong Northern lasses for all the boys as well?” she said, almost teasingly. “Rather than saddle them with some thin-blooded southron maid?”

“As there are no maids who could compare to their mother to be found in the North or South, I would suggest a Northern match for Robb. Again, it will consolidate his position. The North belongs to the Starks of Winterfell, but as I have told you . . .”

“Northmen follow strength,” she finished for him. “I will see a match made for Robb sooner rather than later. He is much too young to be wed, of course, but once he is betrothed, the political gaming that surrounds that will stop. I know both Lord Manderly and Lord Karstark have daughters of suitable age for him at least.”

“You will make the best decisions, Cat. I know that.” Wearily,he closed his eyes again. “As for the little boys, by the time they are old enough to think of betrothals, I shall have been entirely consumed by the worms.”

“Don’t speak so!”

“It is only truth, my love. I shall not be here. Robb will be lord in his own right by then, and he will have to make his brothers matches that best suit whatever the world is in that time. You will help him, though, I know.”

“Of course.”

“If you remarry, Cat, I would ask only that you wed a man who will allow you to remain at Winterfell until all our children are old enough to do without you. I would not wish my children raised elsewhere. They are Starks. They are of the North.”

She was so stunned by those words she couldn’t respond at first. For a brief, blissful few moments, discussing their children’s future had not been so unlike conversations they’d had in her chambers, curled up in her bed together, on many occasions. In spite of Ned’s terrible remark about worms, she’d been able to push from her mind that they were having this conversation because, whatever the future brought their children, Ned would not be here to see it. But to think of herself with any other husband . . .

“I will never remarry,” she said flatly.

“You are young. I would not have you vow to live alone.”

“I have five children. I am never alone. But I will wed no other man. Do not speak of it again, Eddard Stark.”

He sighed. “Very well, my lady.” He was silent for a long while then, and Catelyn listened to the sound of his breathing for several long moments, noticing that the light was finally disappearing from the sky. She fought the urge to force him to speak again just to hear the sound of his voice. She realized her legs were quite damp where the snow had seeped through all her layers of clothing as she knelt in it. There was more room on the fur on the other side of the Ned, where Jory had sat, but she had no wish to let go of his hand even to shift positions.

While she considered it, he opened his eyes again. “Catelyn,” he said, his grey eyes looking grave and his voice a somber whisper. “We must speak of Jon.”

 _Jon. Jon Snow. Ned’s bastard. His son with the woman he would never name._ Catelyn had honestly forgotten all about the boy as her mind was filled with her dying husband and her soon to be fatherless children. She supposed that wasn’t surprising. She had spent the past thirteen years trying never to think of him if she could help it.

“I know you will not wish to keep him at Winterfell.”

“Ned, I . . .” She didn’t want the boy at Winterfell. He was nothing to her. Nothing but a shameful reminder that Ned thought as highly of some other woman’s bastard as he did his trueborn children with her. Nothing but a lurking threat to everything that by rights belonged to Robb, and to his sons after that. No, she did not want the boy at Winterfell, but she did not want to argue with her husband. Not when any word she said might be the last he heard from her lips. “I . . .” She found herself unable to respond. She couldn’t lie to him, even now. And she would not say anything to anger him.

“I would have him go to one of the lords of the Vale,” Ned said. His voice was becoming weaker, and she had to lean close to him to hear him clearly. She thought for a moment she had misheard him.

“Not the Eyrie. I cannot imagine your sister would tolerate his presence there, even if she and Jon are in King’s Landing. Yohn Royce, perhaps.”

“My lord?” Catelyn asked in confusion.

“There are far more knights in the south, my lady. Jon would make a good squire. Mayhaps, he could even become a knight one day.”

Catelyn was not at all enthusiastic about Jon Snow with a Ser in front of his name, but she couldn’t honestly fault Ned for wanting the boy to have some sort of future, and she was pleased enough that it was a future away from Winterfell. “I will arrange it,” she said.

“He has spoken to me of the Wall,” Ned rasped.

This was the first Catelyn had heard of this. Again, not surprising. She never asked about the boy, and Ned did his best never to speak to her about him.

“Tell him I forbid it until his sixteenth nameday. I would have him grow older before he takes such a vow. If he still insists he wishes it then, he has my blessing. Tell Benjen as well. Jon will more likely listen to him.”

In truth, the thought of Jon Snow on the Wall, sworn to take no wife and father no children suited Catelyn far better than the thought of Jon Snow with a knighthood and even the specter of possible legitimization by a king who wanted to honor a dead friend’s memory. She had abided by her husband’s wishes concerning the bastard all these years, however. She would not go against his dying wishes now. “I promise, Ned,” she told him. “I will do all you ask regarding Jon Snow.”

He swallowed. “I thank you, my lady.” He knew what that promise cost her. “I do not deserve you,” he said once more.

“Hush, Ned.”

“There is one more thing, regarding Jon.”

Now, Catelyn began to be irritated. Ned was fading. She could see her husband drifting away from her before her eyes, and he insisted on using this time to discuss his bastard in far greater detail than he‘d spoken of their own children. “What thing?” she asked.

“You must write Howland Reed. As soon as you return to Winterfell. Tell him to come and speak with Jon.”

“Speak with Jon? About what?”

“His mother.”

Catelyn felt cold then. She barely knew the Lord of Greywater Watch, for the crannogman almost never left his marsh. Yet, she knew he had been with Ned through nearly all of Robert’s Rebellion. _So he was with you when you were with her,_ Catelyn thought.

“I would have you know the truth as well,” Ned said then, stunning her further. “Would you have me tell you now?” His voice strained with every word he spoke, and he had not lifted his head off his makeshift pillow for some time.

_I have wanted to know the woman’s name since you brought the boy home. I’ve imagined her more times than I can count. The only bitterness I’ve ever had toward you is for the love and the son you share with her._

She looked at her husband, lying so still, his strong arms lying helpless at his side, his powerful body laid waste by the weapons of lawless, evil men. His eyes were not weak, though. He kept them wide open, fixing her with that grey gaze. Here, in his last moments, he would give her the one thing he had always denied her, if she asked it of him.

“No,” she said, and his eyes widened slightly. “If you wish me to know all of it, I will speak with Lord Reed. I promise. But I would not spend what time I have left with you speaking of the bastard’s mother. I do not care about her, Ned. I care only for you.”

“Cat,” he said, his voice breaking in a way she had never heard it break before. She felt that single utterance of her name pierce her very heart, and she leaned down and pressed her lips against his, not caring that his were dry as Dornish sand and tasted like blood.

“I love you, Ned,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said in return. It wasn’t the first time he’d said the words, but she could count upon one hand the times she heard them from him. She never doubted his love. Not anymore. But he was not one to speak of it. “I love you,” he said again, “And I would have you know that I have never, in all my life, loved a woman as I do you, Catelyn Tully Stark. Never doubt that. Never, my love.”

She couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t even breathe. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. His eyes closed once more, but opened again after a few moments.

“You should move closer to the fire,” he told her in a sleepy sounding voice. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m not,” she said, and she realized she spoke truly. She was damp and vaguely uncomfortable, but she wasn’t terribly cold.

“That’s odd,” he replied. “Because I am. I’m cold, Cat. So cold.”

That frightened her. Plenty of heat came from the fire, and her husband had never complained of cold in all the years she knew him. _It’s the lack of blood._

“Let me lay you back,” she told him, gently pulling the wadded material from behind him so that he could lie flat. She then took up the furs lying by his side and moved herself to the other side of him. She lay down beside him then, pulling the furs over top of them. She found herself immediately too warm, and so she pulled off both cloaks she was wearing. Then she huddled against him and lay her head on his chest as she had a thousand times before. Likely the blood on his shirt would get into her hair, but she didn’t care. “Is that better?” she asked.

“Better.” His voice was exhausted, but she could still hear the hint of amusement in it. “Is this payment for all the nights I’ve kept you warm, my lady?”

“Mmm,” she told him. “Would that I could repay you for thousands of nights, my love.” Her voice sounded desolate to her own ears. All her nights would be cold without Ned, and she shivered at the thought.

With more strength than she thought he had left, he put an arm around her and pulled her tighter against him. “It would appear we both have need of warming my love.”

“I will always have need of you,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ned.”

“You can,” he assured her. “You can because you must.”

They lay there through the night, huddled together on a fur blanket tossed down in the snow with other furs atop them beside a slowly dying fire. If Catelyn slept at all, it was not much. She became aware of the sounds of the men taking watch around the other fires, and the sounds of night birds in the trees. Mostly she was aware of Ned’s breath in her hair and the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear. It was faster than it should be, much faster. But it was steady enough for a long time.

Occasionally, he would speak, and she thought perhaps that he didn’t sleep much either.

“Are you warm enough, Cat?”

“You always keep me warm.”

“I’m no longer cold, either, my lady. You are my warmth.”

Then a bit later . . .

“Sansa’s nameday is only a moon away.”

“Yes, Ned, that’s right.”

“Make sure she has lemoncakes. Tell her they’re from me.”

“I will, Ned. I promise.”

Much later . . .

“You are beautiful.”

“You already told me that.”

“I can never say it enough, and I would not have you forget it.”

She must have slept after that because his voice woke her.

“I did not think to see another sunrise.”

She shifted slightly and looked to the east. It was a beautiful sunrise, the kind which promises mild weather and clear skies.

“It is almost as beautiful as you are, Cat. I am glad you disobeyed me. I would not have survived the night without you to keep me warm. And I am glad of one more sunrise to share with you, my lady.”

“It promises to be a fair day,” she said.

“Aye, but winter is coming.”

The Stark words. So long she’d been Lady Stark now, and still those words made her shiver. On this morning they chilled her to her very bones.

“I know,” she whispered, tightening her arms around him and pressing her head against his chest, closing her eyes against what this day would bring her.

“The winters are hard, but the Starks endure,” he told her. His words were very hard to hear and quite indistinct now. “You are a Stark, my love. You will endure.”

“I love you,” she whispered. Beneath her ear, she heard the most gentle, loving heart in all the Seven Kingdoms skip a beat, and then another, its rapid rhythm becoming more erratic. She held him more tightly. She would hold him safe, keep him warm, and let no pain come to him now. Her own stiff limbs mattered not at all. Huddled close against him, she closed her eyes, imagined them in her warm bedchamber in Winterfell, and listened to her Ned’s heart. Until it stopped.

 _Winter is coming,_ he’d said.

 _No._ She raised up and pressed kisses to his cold lips, seeking the warm breath that should meet her own, but didn’t. She ran her fingers through the dark hair with its random silver strands and pressed her cheek against the closely cropped beard.

_Winter is coming._

She wasn’t aware she was crying until she felt how wet Ned’s face was beneath hers. She wasn’t aware she was screaming until the men ran to her, and Jory Cassel’s arms lifted her away from the cold, still body of her love.

_Winter is coming._

She stood silently as Ned’s men picked him up and began to wrap him in cloth for the journey to Winterfell. She knew there were things she must say to Jory. To Harwin. There were orders to be given. There were things to be done. But not now. Now, she had no words. She had only silence and an emptiness where Ned should be and was not.

_Winter is coming._

_No, my love. You are wrong about that._

In spite of the fairness of this new day, Catelyn Stark knew well that for her, winter had already come.


End file.
